


so call me maybe

by erebones



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bathroom Sex, Friends With Benefits, Fuckbuddies, Lovers to boyfriends, M/M, Penis In Vagina Sex, Trans Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27214429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: r/sexMy fuckbuddy is kind to my cat and my cat likes him. I’m starting to have feelings for him because of that
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 12
Kudos: 148





	so call me maybe

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this reddit post: https://twitter.com/redditships/status/1316080727780360193?s=20, for nobo and blue
> 
> lorenz is a trans man (he uses fem-aligned terms like clit, cunt, etc). claude is either cis or had phalloplasty, choose your own adventure

Things are going better than Lorenz had dared hope—too well, in fact. Almost as soon as the thought appears, right in the middle of dry-humping his booty call against the wall, it's drowned out by the sad, pathetic yowling from behind the bathroom door.

Claude—acquaintance in college, brief competitor at work before he transferred to a different department, and now the aforementioned booty call—pulls away from nibbling delightful marks on Lorenz’s throat and gives him a quizzical look. “You didn’t say you had a baby.”

“I don’t,” Lorenz says through gritted teeth. “It’s my cat.”

“Oh! Is she stuck or something?”

“No,” he sighs, resigning himself to the reality of his situation and sliding out from between Claude and the wall. “ _He_ just hates being confined to the bathroom when I have… guests.”

Claude isn’t his first one night stand, what can he say. He’s a man with certain… appetites. It just so happens that those appetites are more difficult to satiate when his bloody cat insists on howling and spitting at the men he brings home.

“Well we can’t leave him locked up!” Claude says with the dear, sweet innocence of someone who has not been subjected to Growltiger’s particular charms. Before Lorenz can summon enough sobriety to dissuade him, he strides down the hall as if he owns the place and opens the bathroom door with surprising gentility. “Good eve, serrah,” he says to what is no doubt a growling lump of fur perched like royalty upon the closed toilet seat. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Lorenz braces for the screaming, or the hissing, or the deep-chested growl that has sent more than one man backing away in a hurry. But there is silence from the bathroom. Then, to his shock, there is a gruff but gentle _mrrp_ , and Growltiger’s muddy orange-grey bulk emerges into the hall to sniff Claude’s shoe.

“This is one ugly cat,” Claude says, sounding delighted. “I was expecting some kind of purebred pedigree puss.”

“Proud of yourself for that alliteration?” Lorenz asks dryly to cover his shock.

“Yes, very.”

Lorenz shakes his head. “He was a stray, if you must know. He turned up on my doorstep a year or so ago when I first moved here, practically skin and bones. He wouldn’t let me touch him, but he ate whatever I put out, and gradually he sort of just… moved himself in.”

“What’s his name?” Claude slowly eases down into a crouch, offering his hand to be sniffed.

"Growltiger."

"Like the animal, or the musical?"

"The musical," Lorenz admits. What he will _not_ admit to is the formative effect the play had on him as a child. Something about all that spandex. No wonder he grew up queer.

"Nice. My high school put that one on. I was Mistofelees."

Lorenz blinks, trying very hard not to picture Claude all in sleek form-fitting black with a plume of white at the chest and perky little cat ears. He fails. "Adorable," he says. "I'm a little jealous. I wasn't permitted to join the drama club."

"Oh yeah? That's a shame." Claude stands up, grinning when Growltiger purrs a rusty chainsmoker's purr and loops around his ankles. Thankfully he doesn't press for details. "Lucky for you Derdriu's community theatre is going strong. They're opening auditions for _Rent_ next week."

Lorenz raises his eyebrows, embarrassed at the little thrill of excitement he feels. "I'm afraid I don't have much of a singing voice. I didn't know you had your finger on the pulse of community arts."

"It's a hobby." Claude shrugs. "Good way to make friends and put on someone else's pants for the day. Speaking of pants." He prowls close and hooks his fingers in Lorenz's belt loops. "Can I take yours off, baby?"

As a rule—and Lorenz _does_ have rules; trust Claude to skip the informational packet—Lorenz prefers not to be called pet names. It feels demeaning at worst, at best a syrupy-sweet violation of the _just sex, no feelings_ guidelines he imposes strictly on himself. But as Claude kisses up his neck and gets his hands on Lorenz's behind, there is no familiar twist of discomfort in his stomach. Just a warm, sticky glow that he recognizes, horribly, as _affection._

Lorenz is so fucked.

xxx

Unfortunately, Claude is a good lay. A _very_ good lay. He's somehow mastered the balance of checking in without seeming overbearing, and his gentle, playful nature makes sex fun and lighthearted even though it’s their first time together. (Also, his dirty talk is _unfairly_ hot.)

Lorenz drives to work instead of riding his bike as usual, and thankfully no one says anything. His reasons are not exactly water cooler-appropriate.

Otherwise his life continues unchanged. He works, he goes home, he jogs and writes poetry and falls asleep in front of the telly with Growltiger ensconced gleefully on his lap. Sometimes, Claude texts him, and he’ll come over and wring Lorenz dry. It’s always Claude initiating; at first it’s just happenstance, but then it becomes a pattern. Lorenz decides not to read too much into it, and one evening in the middle of the week, when work feels like its grinding its heel into his lower back and he just wants someone to twist him in knots and then smooth him out after like raw dough, he texts Claude first.

He gets a _sorry, busy_ sort of polite response, which embarrasses him so thoroughly that he sulks his aches away in the bath and decides not to try again. It’s more disappointing than he wants to admit. Something about Claude’s easy charm and snarky wit--and something about the gentle way he is with Growltiger--touches something in his chest that Lorenz has kept long guarded. But, he supposes, sinking deeper into the water with a forlorn little sigh, Claude _is_ just a booty call. Nothing more and nothing less. And it’s better that way.

He doesn’t hear from Claude again for almost a month. Then, one lazy Saturday evening as he’s laying on the couch scrolling Grindr without much luck, his phone buzzes on the coffee table. _U up?_

Lorenz rolls his eyes to cover the leap of his heart in his chest. _I am awake, yes._

Claude sends a single cry-laughing emoji, followed swiftly by _kinda horny, kinda miss your long legs around my waist xoxo_

Arousal squeezes his insides tight and warms between his thighs. _My door, and bed, are open._

 _Yours again?_ Claude asks, followed by a car emoji, which Lorenz takes to mean he’s on his way.

 _I’m far too underdressed to go traipsing about town, even for your delightful cock_.

Claude sends a few sobbing emojis and nothing else. Ten minutes later the buzzer goes off, and Lorenz—quite lazily, he’ll admit—unlocks the downstairs door with the app on his phone rather than get up. He might be a little bit wetter by now. He might be teasing himself through his clothes, watching a tiny damp spot form in the pale lavender-grey fabric of his stretchy pants.

When Claude lets himself in Lorenz has every intention of getting up to greet him, but the door clicks shut and he hears, unmistakably directed elsewhere: “Well hello there, handsome. Did you miss me?”

Lorenz rolls over to peer over the arm of the couch. From here he can see Claude leaning over to stroke Growltiger’s long, scraggly fur as the ornery cat weaves around his ankles. His chest constricts strangely. “Did you come over just to pet my cat?” he demands, putting a little more petulance into his voice than he really feels.

“Can’t a guy have both?” Still, Claude gives Growltiger a few more pats before shrugging off his coat and putting his shoes neatly by the door. “Hey, you.” He comes through the house on quiet sock feet and leans over to kiss him upside-down.

“Hello.” Feeling warm and strange, as if he’s greeting a longtime partner and not a sometimes booty call, Lorenz stretches out and hums at the feeling of stubble against his neck.

“Hmm. Getting started without me, are you?” Claude puts a cold hand right up Lorenz’s shirt and pinches his nipples when he shrieks in protest. “Fair’s fair.”

“I thought you wanted to fuck me,” Lorenz pouts instead of admitting that cold hands massaging his nipples feels _really_ nice, actually.

“Impatient, huh. Did you miss me?”

Lorenz gasps and squirms. “Of course not, you insufferable—”

“Ah ah ah.” Claude lets him go, but only for a moment. Swiftly he rounds the couch and scoops Lorenz up as though he weighs nothing at all, smirking at Lorenz’s open mouth. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come by when you texted, but I’ll make up for it tonight, okay?”

“You’d better,” Lorenz grumbles, and kisses him.

Claude makes good on his word, wearing Lorenz out so thoroughly that he drops off to sleep without even asking if Claude needs anything before he heads out. Which explains why, when morning comes, the smell of coffee is already drifting through the house, and his bed is still warm and distinctly rumpled from having been slept in by two people instead of one.

Moving with a pleasant, aching stiffness in his limbs—Claude _really_ enjoyed pushing the limits of his flexibility—Lorenz puts on leggings and his coziest dressing gown and pokes his head out to see where his impromptu guest might be.

The open floorplan of his apartment gives him an excellent view of several things. First, the coffee press steeping on the counter. Second, the man reading the morning paper in his favorite armchair. Third, the cat asleep in Claude’s lap, curled up as cozily as he does with Lorenz on cold winter nights.

“Morning sleepyhead,” Claude says without looking up. Then he _does_ look up, smiling, hair messy and eyes soft, and Lorenz has to lean against the door frame to keep from falling over. “Hope you don’t mind I stayed.”

“It’s fine,” Lorenz says faintly. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please. It should be just about ready now.”

Lorenz, grateful for something to occupy his hands, goes to pour the coffee. He usually has two cups to himself, but this time he pours out one for himself and one for Claude, adding a little cream on Claude’s direction. When he moves into the living room, Claude discards the newspaper, shoos Growltiger away, and pulls Lorenz into his lap instead.

“That’s more like it,” he says, accepting the mug Lorenz bemusedly hands him. “Sleep well?”

“Quite well, thanks to you.” Lorenz takes a few sips of coffee to clear the cobwebs and the morning breath before allowing Claude to kiss him. It’s a very intense kiss for such an early hour, with a lot of tongue and a slow, friendly grope of his backside, as though Claude is revisiting all the places he’d despoiled the night before. Lorenz sighs a little when he pulls away. “You should stay over more often,” he hears himself say.

Claude’s eyebrows lift a little, but he doesn’t laugh at him the way Lorenz half-expected. “Oh yeah? I thought sleepovers were a hard _no_.”

“So you _did_ read the packet!” Lorenz yelps, betrayed.

“I did. Of course! It’s a bit unorthodox, but I appreciate a man who knows how to set healthy boundaries.”

“Which you immediately flaunted.”

“Only ever on accident,” Claude pouts. “And not _immediately_ , it just so happens that you wore me out so thoroughly I fell right asleep.”

“You called me _baby_ , the first time,” Lorenz reminds him, but it doesn’t sound like much of an accusation. _And the third, and the sixth_ , he thinks to himself, recalling with a little flush those wanton throes of passion.

“Also an accident, one I completely forgot, as it happens.” Claude’s puppy dog eyes grow serious. “I’m sorry for overstepping.”

“I suppose I can forgive you.” Lorenz brushes an erstwhile curl from Claude’s forehead. “After all, my cat likes you. That’s a rarity indeed.”

“Soooo,” Claude drawls, giving Lorenz’s bum a squeeze, “you don’t mind if I stick around, whip up some breakfast, maybe take you back to bed?”

Lorenz blushes and reconnoiters behind his coffee. “That sounds manageable.”

xxx

Claude stays for breakfast—which is more of a brunch at this point—and, true to his word, takes Lorenz back to bed for a slow, lazy makeout session that transitions to fucking in the shower. Then they’re both feeling peckish, and it’s easy to walk down the street for a light, late lunch looking out over the harbor, knees knocking under the table.

When he leaves nearly twenty-four hours after arriving, bestowing a light kiss for Lorenz and a friendly pat for the besotted Growltiger, Lorenz can perhaps admit to himself that Claude is turning into more than a booty call.

Still, with the boundary lines shifted, he’s uncertain where or how to step, and ends up staring at his phone in anticipation and dread over the next week, waiting for Claude to call. Text. Anything.

Nothing.

“Perhaps I was mistaken,” he says mournfully to Growltiger, late on a Friday evening. He’s dragging himself out to a birthday party for one of his coworkers, fashionably late because he’d been hoping Claude would be in the mood for some fun. His cat blinks at him from his spot on the arm of the couch, tail-tip twitching but otherwise unmoved by Lorenz’s plight. “Don’t look at me like that, I know you like him too. I think you like him more than you like _me_.”

Growltiger shuts his eyes slowly and opens them again, and Lorenz feels bad.

“Right. Maybe not.”

He calls a cab, since he doesn’t intend on returning home in any kind of sober state, and arrives at the venue as celebrations are in full swing. His boss had rented out the top floor of a club for the occasion, and drinks are flowing and the dance floor crowded as he slinks to the bar, hoping to blend into the crowd.

“Loreeeeeenz, you made it!”

Of course. Of _course_. Lorenz puts on a smile and allows himself to be enfolded in the big, burly arms of the office flirt. “Hello Sylvain,” he says politely, tilting his chin up to keep from smelling his cologne. Sylvain had been one of his regulars until he started dating his petite, prickly neighbor, but the bloke is still fond of getting up in people’s personal space. “How go the festivities?”

“Oh they _go_. Going strong—you just missed the dance off, which you’re probably happy about. Here, what are you drinking?”

“Ah… cab sav, please.”

“You heard the man!” Sylvain says loudly, but with enough boorish charm that the harried bartender actually stops to acknowledge him. “One cab sav, please, and a whiskey neat for yours truly.”

“So who won?” Lorenz asks, perching on one of the few empty bar stools to await his drink and tugging his pencil skirt lower. Given how busy the bar is, he expects to be waiting a while.

“Won? Oh, the dance off. I _did_ come in second place, I’ll have you know, but someone from another department snatched victory from my grasp… it was at the tips of my fingers…”

“Mmhmm.” Despite his petulant annoyance, Lorenz finds himself smiling at Sylvain’s dramatics. He’s full of himself, but so is Lorenz—as he’s finally come around to admitting—and he is, at heart, an excellent weaver of yarns. Whether the details are true or not is not as important as the flair with which he delivers them.

“...and anyway, I don’t feel too bad about losing, really; it was a well-earned win. Wasn’t in, von Riegan?”

Lorenz, who has received his wine by this time, startles upright in his seat and very nearly tips his class all over the bartop. He knows that name. And sure enough, who should slink out of the darkness of the venue but Claude himself, a bit dewy with sweat but otherwise picture-perfect, curls tamed into place and crisp white shirt slightly unbuttoned, his loosened tie swinging free like a beacon drawing attention to the sweaty hollow of his throat.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Claude says. He’s smiling with all his teeth, but something is missing, a bright glitter in his eyes that Lorenz thinks he could recognize at fifty paces. His heart sinks.

“Oh nah, I was just regaling our resident trends analyst with tales of woe from my defeat on the dance floor,” Sylvain declaims. Anyone who didn’t know him as well as Lorenz might think him oblivious to the sudden tension, but not so; with the finesse of a dancer, he maneuvers himself to the outer edge of their little half-circle and gets the attention of the bartender. “Lucky for you you’re just in time to reap the rewards of my generosity. What’ll it be?”

“It’s open bar, Sylvain,” Claude says dryly, “but since you’re offering I’ll take a Revelator, thanks.”

“I don’t even know what that is, but I’ll ask.”

Sylvain leans over the counter to place the order, and there’s a moment of contrived privacy so poignant that Lorenz finds it difficult to breathe. He forces himself to meet Claude’s eyes and is met with an impersonal stone wall.

“I’m sorry I missed the dance-off,” he blurts out.

“I’m sure someone recorded it.” Claude sounds, and looks, as distant as a stranger; but then a funny look comes over him and he says, apropos of nothing, “Why haven’t you called?”

Lorenz’s anxious stomach ices over and he abruptly feels like a complete fool. “I… I don’t know. I suppose I was waiting for you.”

“Waiting for _me?_ ” His eyebrows rise along with his voice in incredulity. “You’re the one with the info packet, remember? I figured I’d let you decide how, if at all, you wanted to… bend the rules.”

Lorenz spares a quick glance over his shoulder, and is met with the back of Sylvain’s neck as he pointedly strikes up a conversation with the person next to them. Right. “I think,” he says, staring very deeply into his wineglass, “I’ve been a bit of an idiot.”

“I should say so,” Claude agrees, not unkindly. “Was I wrong, then, to let you decide how to proceed?”

“No,” Lorenz mumbles. “I just thought—the last time I reached out first you were busy, I didn’t want to impose—”

“I _made you breakfast_ , Lorenz. We spent the entire bloody day together, I don’t know how much clearer I can make it that I’m interested. In _you_. In more than a friends with benefits way.” Claude sighs, clearly trying to shake off weeks of frustration. “I thought I’d overstepped, that I’d misread… everything. I didn’t want to make it worse by hounding you.”

Lorenz cringes. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven.”

“I—wait, really?”

Claude’s eyes are warm and crinkly when he finally meets them, despite the weary furrow of his brow. “It was just a misunderstanding, not a grievous insult to my honor, Lorenz. It stung a bit, I admit, but I figured you were just… working things out.”

“I didn’t mean to leave you in the dark.”

“It’s all right.” Claude reaches across him for his newly delivered drink, brushing against Lorenz’s chest. The smell of him reaches Lorenz suddenly through the faint perfume of stale beer and fresh-cut citrus: a warm, spicy, male smell, undercut with faded cologne and a bit of clean sweat. He swallows, but isn’t strong enough to hold his breath. “Besides, I figured you couldn’t hate me _too_ much—your cat is obsessed with me, remember?”

“How could I forget,” Lorenz mutters. He’s had enough wine by now, sipping it more quickly than he might normally, to set his glass down on the bar and reach out to straighten Claude’s collar. The brush of warm skin and warm eyes feels like hot liquor in his belly.

“How long do you intend to stay?” Claude asks.

Lorenz calculates the level of their drinks against the noise and hubbub of being surrounded by perhaps two dozen of their coworkers. “About ten minutes.”

Claude laughs. “I think I can work with that.” He throws back the remainder of his drink and leans in to breathe against his ear, “Meet me in the washroom,” before setting his glass down and winding his way through the crowd. Lorenz watches him go, toying with the stem of his wineglass.

“All good?” Sylvain asks loudly from behind him. Lorenz jumps and only just avoids slopping wine all over his lap.

“Yes quite, thank you.”

“Didn’t know you had a thing on with von Riegan.” Sylvain is grinning, elbow hard up against the bar as he anticipates whatever juicy gossip Lorenz is willing to part with. Unfortunately for Sylvain, Lorenz is feeling particularly tightlipped at the moment.

“It’s relatively new,” he says vaguely. “But my cat likes him, so I have a good feeling.”

Sylvain whistles. “That ugly bastard? Damn. You sure it’s not just a fluke? Ten bucks says he’s barfing in von Riegan’s shoes before the week is out.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Lorenz says, and slides off his stool. “I’m off to use the loo, watch my drink, won’t you?”

“Sure thing boss,” Sylvain says, with the oozy smile of someone who knows Lorenz won’t be coming back. “Enjoy your… evening.”

Lorenz moves through the crowd largely unmolested; everyone is too deep in their cups and conversations to notice him. He spares a few greetings for those who do, and finally turns a quiet corner and gives a gentle knock to the only closed door.

“Occupied!” sings a familiar voice. Lorenz rolls his eyes.

“It’s me, you dunce.”

The door swings open and Lorenz is yanked bodily into the room. “Dunce, is it? How quickly you return to your snippy ways, my dear.” Claude doesn’t look put off, despite his words; nor does he act it, pressing Lorenz against the door and locking it. “I was hoping for a little more contrition.”

Lorenz takes a quick glance around. It’s a very elegant washroom, in accordance with the style of venue, with a single toilet behind a partition and a wide marble counter playing host to the sink. The mirror reaches nearly to the ceiling and is dazzlingly clean, providing a pristine view of Claude’s wide shoulders and tight little ass in his trousers. Lorenz slides his hands into those snug back pockets and squeezes.

“If you’re looking for an apology,” he breathes, “I think I can indulge you.”

“Mmm. You _are_ an indulgence. Every inch of you.” Claude runs his hands down Lorenz’s sides as if to illustrate the point. They find their way beneath his skirt and lift up, tracing the edge of silky, lace-trimmed panties. “Ah-ha.”

“Want to know the reason I was late?” Lorenz gasps, rolling his hips into the pressure of Claude’s hand.

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway, so please.” Claude presses his thumb insistently against the shape of Lorenz’s clit, slippery through wet silk. “Enlighten me.”

Lorenz buries a moan into Claude’s mouth. “I was hoping you would call. Tonight.”

“Tsk, tsk. And skip dear Ferdinand’s ‘do?”

“I know, I’m a terrible friend— _ah_.”

“I get it.” Claude smirks, leaving his clit alone to rub teasingly back and forth along the gusset. “Sometimes you’re more in the mood to stay home and… get cozy.”

“ _Oh…_ Claude…”

“We shouldn’t take too long,” Claude says briskly. He doesn’t sound at all like he has one finger in Lorenz’s cunt, moving easily back and forth, stretching him for something bigger. “Be a good boy and bend over the sink for me?”

Lorenz wants to swoon, but this is hardly the time or place. Instead he presses away from the door and moves on trembling legs to the sink cabinet, grateful that he’d forgone high heels in favor of some lower, more sensible ankle boots. He bends over, bracing his feet wide without being told and sighing with relief at the cold marble against his cheek. “You really are taking a lot of _firsts_ from me,” he grumbles over his shoulder.

“Oh yeah?” There’s the sound of a zip being pulled, and some shuffling fabric. The telltale crinkle of a foil wrapper. Lorenz shuts his eyes. “What else, besides fucking in a public-ish bathroom?”

“Sleeping over.”

“Hmm, yes. Quite terrible of me.”

“Somehow getting my cat to like you.”

“What can I say, I’m good with pussy.”

Lorenz chokes on a protest as Claude pushes his skirt up and his panties down, just beneath the bum so that he can feel cool air on his vulva. “You are—insufferable,” he manages to eke out at last, trembling. His fingers scrabble uselessly at the smooth marble before he gives up and folds his arms together, head resting atop them as Claude teases his hole with two fingers. “You said something about _not taking too long_ , earlier.”

Claude clucks his tongue. “Well sue me for making sure you’re ready.” There’s the telltale shape of a cockhead rubbing between his folds and Lorenz whimpers. “For the record,” Claude adds, much closer this time, bent over to whisper in his ear, “you are.”

Then Claude pushes in, slow but steady, not stopping even when Lorenz wheezes and instinctively half-tries to move away. His vision goes black and speckled—or maybe he’s just closed his eyes—and a low, tremulous groan escapes him. Claude has him pinned, well and truly; hands on his bare hips, cock all the way inside, stretching him just over the edge of discomfort.

“You’re wearing a condom?” he gasps out: the last coherent thought in his head.

“Of course. _That_ is a first I think we should discuss beforehand. In detail.”

Then, before Lorenz can gather his wits enough to respond, Claude pulls back a little and thrusts into him in earnest. Lorenz bites down on his own sleeve to keep quiet, but it’s a fool’s errand; despite his best efforts, desperate little whimpers squeak out between his teeth as Claude fucks him steadily against the sink. He’s like a goddamn metronome, keeping time, slow at first as Lorenz adjusts to his girth and then moving faster, faster. Lorenz drops his forehead to the marble to pant for breath and watches the shining surface fog up, growing murky and indistinct with every gasp.

Apart from his own breathing, the only other sound is the wet, distinct _squelch_ of Claude’s cock moving in and out of him. Lorenz shudders and feels more slick well up, feels it start to drip down his thighs. He’s so fucking wet for Claude, and from the low groan of approval at his nape, Claude can tell.

Then there’s a hand in his hair, and his head is being coaxed back, back, until he’s braced on his forearms and staring at his own red, sweaty face, his own mouth hanging open, his own eyes dark and glassy and unfocused. “Look,” Claude whispers, slowing his roll. The next thrust is positively _luxurious_ , stretching him wide, grinding right up where he needs it most. “Look at how gorgeous you are when I fuck you.”

Lorenz watches his face crumple in real time, but before he can cry out, on the cusp of orgasm, Claude’s hand slaps over his mouth and his green eyes meet Lorenz’s in the mirror.

“I need you to be quiet, baby. I know it feels good, I know, I’m in your tight pussy right now and it feels so _good_ , but I need you to bite your tongue for me baby, okay?”

Lorenz squinches his eyes tightly and nods. When Claude pulls his hand away he drops his head between his arms and holds on, digging his nails into his biceps as Claude pounds into him. In the dark all he can hear is their skin slapping together, the harsh breaths Claude exhales—he sets a punishing pace, and Lorenz’s self-control is dissolving before its battering ram.

When orgasm surges through him he wants to _scream_ for how big Claude feels inside him, how tightly his body squeezes around him; but he bites his lower lip and holds his breath until he’s dizzy, and after a long, aching, delicious wave that only ever seems to crash over him and never recede, Lorenz slumps against the sink, entirely relying on Claude to hold him upright. His thrusts had slowed nearly to stopping, clasped too tight to move; but _now_ he moves in earnest, a rapid-fire fuck that only lasts two or three breaths. On the fourth inhale, head tipped to the side to watch Claude’s face in the mirror, Lorenz feels him cum into the condom, shuddering, fingers pressed so tightly into Lorenz’s hips he hopes he’ll feel the marks for days.

“Fuck,” Claude sighs at last, stumbling away. He twists off the condom and drops it in the wastebin before slumping onto the toilet seat with his dick softening in the open placket of his trousers. Sweat sheens his skin like gold, hair finally starting to fall out of its perfect coif. “You’re so good, Lorenz. _Fuck_.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lorenz says, gathering the scattered threads of his aloofness. He pulls his panties back up with a grimace at the dampness, and sets about tidying the rest of his clothes. “You did all the work.”

“Mmm. Yeah, but your pussy is well worth it.”

Lorenz rolls his eyes and wets his fingers with water from the sink to smooth his flyaways. “My cunt, or my cat?”

“Yes.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And _you_ are stunning. Goddess, I just want to eat you up.” Apparently finding his strength again, Claude stands, tucks his dick away, and does up his belt and fly before sliding his arms around Lorenz from behind. “Can I take you home?” he croons, nuzzling Lorenz’s neck.

They both know full well that’s also a hard no, according to the packet. But Lorenz decides, right then and there, that they’re well past any need for referring to the rules. “Yes. Right now.”

Claude gives him a coy look of surprise in the mirror. “Right now? Immediately? What about dear Ferdinand?”

“I’ll send him a fruit basket. He’ll understand.” Lorenz winds his arms around Claude’s shoulders and leans down for a slow, satisfying kiss. “Take me home,” he whispers against Claude’s lips. “And make love to me all night.”

“Darling, it would be my pleasure. It’s just…”

Lorenz swallows down a fleeting brush of anxiety. He _refuses_ to let doubt ruin his post-orgasmic glow. “Just what?”

“Will Growltiger be all right left alone? It’s a serious question!” Claude adds hurriedly before Lorenz can snip at him. “I’ve never had a cat, I don’t know how they… do.”

“He’ll be fine. In fact he probably won’t even notice I’m gone.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. He’s besotted with you.”

Lorenz raises an eyebrow, feeling bold. “Who does that remind me of?”

“Ha! Okay, okay, point.” Claude drops a kiss onto his shoulder and steps away. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

“Should we exit the washroom at the same time—okay,” Lorenz says, already being tugged bodily from the room. Thankfully there’s no one waiting to use it, although the loo next door is occupied. Lorenz flushes and hopes they weren’t overheard.

They pass through the party without being noticed—Lorenz makes a mental note to text Sylvain later and thank him—and soon enough they’re standing on the damp street, waiting for the couple ahead of them to get into their cab. While they wait, Lorenz surreptitiously slides a palm into Claude’s back pocket, and startles to find a slip of folded paper inside.

“Take it,” Claude murmurs, slinging an arm around Lorenz’s waist. “It’s for you.”

“What…?”

“It’s what I meant to give you, the morning after I stayed. I left it in my pocket instead, forgot all about it. I figure now’s as good a time as any.”

As the cab ahead of them pulls away and the next inches forward, Lorenz unfolds the slip of paper. He recognizes it—one of the slips from the scratchpad he keeps on the kitchen counter. One never knows when a particularly inspired verse will strike. But what’s written on the paper is not a verse, just a few short words in Claude’s bold, untidy hand.

_This might be too soon to say, but I like you. A lot. We don’t have to put labels on it, I just want you to be mine. Only. Will you? X / O_

“X for yes, O for no,” Claude says, smiling, and gets into the cab.

Lorenz stares at the paper a moment, floored. He’s never been exclusive before. Never had a steady partner. Never trusted anyone enough.

Before the cab driver can grow impatient and honk at him, Lorenz scrambles into the back seat and slides up against Claude’s side. “Yes,” he whispers in his ear, with a swift kiss to his cheek.

“Really?” Claude asks, wide-eyed and delighted.

Lorenz shrugs. “What can I say? My cat has good taste.”


End file.
